The Aftermath of it All
by BroadwayGeek13
Summary: What will John do now that Sherlock's dead? How will he feel? And what happens when something unexpected comes up... from Sherlock himself? Johnlock, def. (later in the story) Tiny bit of fluff, &angst, &John hurting feels. Enjoy.
1. Part One

It's been 2 weeks since... The _incident. _2 drawn out, absolutely dreadful, hideous weeks, to be blunt. John sat in Mrs. Hudson's flat; the exact spot he had been in for the past four hours, staring at the ornate wall across from him. Fortunately for his well being, her wall had a different florid pattern than the one of his- and the late Sherlock's- own flat. Mrs. Hudson called to him for the 3rd time, her voice ringing in a high octave from her kitchen. John responded by sinking deeper into the cosy couch. Sighing, she made her way into the living room where he was.

"I've made tea, John." He didn't avert his eyes at all. "I've made tea." She repeated, louder. He barely made a grunting-like noise in response. She sighed and set the platter in front of him. "One scoop of sugar, or two?" She asked, though she was already putting sugar in a cup, knowing he wouldn't answer anyway. She highly doubted he'd even take a sip, but she felt the need to be hospitable. She paused, looking at him sympathetically, then walked over and carried on with fixing her a cup in the other room. Miraculously, she heard the clanging of a cup being moved in the living room. "At least he's not dead..." She muttered, taking a sip of her own cup. In an attempt to make conversation, she called to the lump on the couch in the other room. "So, have you made any progress with cleaning out your flat?"

"No." She was astonished to hear a voice coming from him, so sure he'd been dumbed by shock.

"Oh." She sighed. "Are you planning on making _any _progress in the next week?

No response.

"Well... Would you want me to get you help? So you don't have to..." She trailed off, knowing John knew what she meant.

"You'd be a saint." He whispered, picking up his cup to his mouth again. Mrs. Hudson nodded, then rushed off to find someone fit for the job. John sat there in silence, one lone thing on his mind. The same thing that's been on his mind for the past two weeks.

_Sherlock._

He literally threw the cup back down on the table, and sighed. He would cry, but all the tears have been emptied out of him. Angry and depressed, he rested his head on the top part of the sofa behind him. Suddenly, an obnoxious vibration came from his pocket. He jumped, the noise scaring him half to death. His shaky hands reached into his pocket, then exposed his phone. John was puzzled, wondering who'd contact him this early, and why now; no one has phoned him for at least the two weeks. He squinted, and saw what the phone read:

_Outside, now. _

_MH_

It took him a moment, but John realized who it was: Mycroft Holmes. It buzzed again:

_And make sure you look decent. _

_MH_

"_Finally_, you phone me..." Sighing, John got up. Whatever it was, it must've been important; Mycroft doesn't text. He probably was being respectful of the mourning man, not wanting to scare or disturb him too much. Of course, like his late brother, he was a smart man. He has seen these types of people before, depressed and such. He'd know that John would be silent somewhere; which he was right. John, sluggish although trying to move swiftly, grabbed his coat and shoved his phone in the pocket. He walked over to a window, positioning himself to see his reflection, and flattened down his hair the best he could. He was interrupted by his phone buzzing a third time.

_HURRY UP._

_MH_

"Oh shut up, I'm hurrying." He muttered to himself, quietly. John then rushed out the door, nearly tripping over the forgotten step by the door. He was welcomed outside by a fancy limo-like cab, and an attractive woman whom held the door open for him. He climbed in; not that he _wanted _to, but because he had nothing better to do. Once in the car, he just sat there. His arm was propping his head up, and he just watched the scenery race by outside his window.

Before he knew it, he arrived at a tall and ominous, but familiar, building.

John, using all his energy and whatever will power he had left, tumbled out of the car and up the stairs. He slumped through the seemingly never ending hallways, honestly not caring how bad or depressed he looked. He was greeted by Mycroft himself at the end of the hall, who wasn't pleased to see John's poor appearance.

"I told you to look decent." He huffed, annoyed. John rolled his eyes. "Trust me," Mycroft spoke as he started walking, "This trip is worth it." John trotted behind faster, his words perking his interest. He cleared his throat.

"Where are we going, exactly?" Mycroft didn't answer; just smirked. This made John even more curious.

"You'll see. Be patient." John scoffed; patience wasn't one of his greatest virtues. After what seemed like forever from anticipation to poor John, the two men finally stood in front of a big grey door. Mycroft inserted a key card through a slide slot and it flashed. A _click _was heard, signifying the door unlocking, and they entered. John gaped and looked around in curiosity. They were in gigantic room with little rooms within. John only remembered being in this room once or twice, but couldn't for the life of him remember what it was used for. He wondered why they were here now, what was so important, why it was securely locked. Chills came through him as he remembered Bakersville, and the eerie locks they put on everything there. It also reminded him of Sherlock, and so he shakes the memory off. Mycroft leads him to a far hidden lab room. He unlocks the door and steps in, John following close behind.

John cringes as he walks in, his heart aching, his head throbbing. The room was _filled _with pictures of Sherlock; not him in general- his _death _pictures_. _John was so tempted to turn around and walk straight out, but he held his ground. He didn't really know why he did, other than he knew it was of extreme importance, as Mycroft so convinced him. But now he wasn't so sure he could handle it.

"Wh..." He barely could get a word out. "Wha.. What... _is _this?" Mycroft pressed his lips together and folded his hands behind him, seemingly ready to bare big news.

"I'm sorry I had to bring you here," He began, taking in John's rough appearance; dark circles under his eyes, obviously hasn't slept right for days. Dirty, wrinkled clothing, at least three days old. Hair a greasy mess. Mycroft takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "But... It's the best evidence I can give you." John gave a puzzled look. "Before I inform you of the actual reasoning to why you're here, I want you to try and figure it out yourself." John's eyes widened in shock and confusement. He then started walking around the room, attentively but cautiously. He tried to focus on the logic and information behind the pictures, rather than the actual point of them: _dead Sherlock._ He finally understood what his late flatmate meant; become attached to the victim, and you're focus is completely shifted. You can't think clearly. Emotion and sentiment fog logic. Having a hard time, he turns to Mycroft.

"I can't." He insisted. Mycroft shook his head.

"Yes, you _can,_ John. Focus."

"But Mycro-"

"_Focus_." Sighing, John turned back around. He walked to his left, and shifted his attention to a group of photos hanging on a wall. On a couple duplicates, red marker circled certain areas. On one, Sherlock's coat sleeve of his right arm. On another, his head. On yet another, part of the background was circled. Puzzled, John leaned closer to focus in on the area of attention. He saw a group of three in an alley, seemingly waiting for something. He turned around to Mycroft, and gave him a look. A look that said, _I think I know. _Mycroft smiled, and John followed suit, knowing he'd been correct.

"Yes John... Sherlock isn't actually dead." -

A flurry of different emotions crashed hard and sudden at John. He didn't know whether to be furious or elated, whether to faint or punch a wall. He instead just stood there in shock, emotionless. A conflicted Mycroft stood across from the man, not really sure what he was going through; he _was _a Holmes kid, after all, and didn't believe in sentiment. It was also quite hard to see what John was going through when he showed no or very little emotion outwardly. After a couple minutes, John finally moved; he pulled out the nearest lab chair, and sat down forcefully. He put his head in his hands. He had about a half-a-million questions, but he could only spit out one word.

"W.. Why?" Mycroft continued standing, and sighed. He shook his head.

"I... Have no clue, Dr. Watson. That's what we're trying to figure out. I was hoping you could help us... Since you probably know Sherlock the most, besides me, his own brother." He paused. "But even then, I'm not sure if there's competition. You were his best friend, after all. Lived and dealt with him for two years straight. He hardly has conversations with me. Mentions you frequently, though." John was astonished. Sherlock, know _him_ better than his own _brother_? He couldn't help but smile a little.

"Alright. I'm in." As soon as he spoke these words, he felt a pang of remorse. Dealing with Sherlock's death everyday? But, after all, he already _did_ deal with it everyday. The difference will be that this work will be _positive,_ more or less. There won't be any chucking things at a wall, at the ground, or at Mrs. Hudson. There wouldn't be, in this process, days were he couldn't walk, stand up, or days when he needed his cane again. No more aches, no more extreme fatigue from crying. Perhaps this project will bring relief and alleviation. His regret let up, and he was completely resolute and sound in his immediate judgement. Mycroft, for the first time ever that John had ever seen, smiled. It was only for a split second, and John thought it might've imagined it, but even the thought of it was fascinating. Mycroft nodded once to John.

"Let's begin." He led John out of the room into a new one. This room was bigger, and included various paperwork on varied tables and counters. Mycroft walked over and pulled out a chair next to a counter, sitting in one himself. John followed suit. Mycroft handed a nicely filled folder to John, who opened it and gasped. He had to grip the counter to keep from passing out.

_Part one end. _


	2. Part Two

_**A/N: It's been almost a month omg omg I'm so sorry I love you all for being patient. Yes all three of you(; okay okay no really I'm sorry. Muah. Enjoy. **_

_**This has like one bad word so. Barely. I had to. It's John, guys. I hope it's not too long.. and I hope it's worth the wait… I'd love feedback! Mmk go ahead and read now! ~ 3**_

It's been a whole month. John himself, Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, and a couple other employers on the squad joined together to contemplate the huge perplexing mystery that is, Sherlock's death. For over 300 hours, they've been searching vainly. John was now at home, finished from yet another exhausting trip to the lab.

An envelope from the original folder (that was filled with Sherlock's information) stared at him on the counter across from where he was sitting on Mrs. Hudson's dining chair. Finally giving in, the agony unable to bare any longer, he grabbed it. Mycroft had asked him not to open it until he was utterly okay with Sherlock's death. Yet, the late man's brother claimed he had no clue what its contents were. He told John his worried claim was "'just in case' protection." Of course, john had his suspicions. Sighing, he finally ripped off the top in a jagged, rushed manner. He dumped the contents onto the dining room table, and tumbling out came a letter and a small package. They were both addressed to John. His eyes got huge, and he was unable to comprehend what exactly was happening; memories now flooded his aching head. He knew the handwriting. It was _Sherlock's _handwriting. He wrote this before he _died_. Well, "_died_," really; At least he assumed it was before he "died." He began to open the letter.

John suddenly stopped mid-opening.

What if this was from recently? Sherlock isn't dead; this could be from last month. Last week. _Yesterday. _

The very thought of Sherlock being alive, somewhere, writing to him, made John smile. Just a little. It made him frustrated at the same time as well, thinking about how he'd kept a secret. Why couldn't John just know? Of course, no one really knew. At least, John didn't think they knew. That's why they were trying to solve the mystery of his "death," right? No one could know except Sherlock, right?

His head pulsed with pain. He couldn't stand thinking this severely, and this scattered. He was going nowhere with his thoughts, anyway. He sighed and continued his previous task. It turned out to be a letter of medium length, filling a whole side and a half. He began to read.

_My dearest John,_

_I suppose it's peculiar for me to be calling you that. After all, I've never actually shown any terms of endearment to you, have I? I also suppose you're fascinated with why I wrote you a letter. Well, I just need to get a few things off my chest. _

Sherlock was right; John was confused, and definitely curious. Why the all of a sudden sentiment? He supposed the reason would turn up later in the letter.

_First off, you know I'm still alive. I actually wrote this after my.. 'death.'_

Well, that answers one of his questions.

_But you see, I am in need to admit something; something huge. Before I say, please, don't be too irate with me.. Alright, John, here it goes.. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, all of them; they know. They know exactly how I survived._

"What?!" John shot up out of his chair, outraged. He paced, reading further, clutching the paper tighter in his tired hands.

_Yes, in fact, they even helped me plan the whole contrivance. Hired actors for me and everything. They made certain that you were kept at a distance; made certain that I appeared as slaughtered to you as possible._

John was blazing beyond words or actions at this very moment. He couldn't believe his eyes at all; why would Sherlock do such a thing? "What the bloody hell- Sherlock! Three years, not very good timing!" He exclaimed at his paper, even though no soul could hear his words.

He winced a little at the faint voice at the back of his memory. "_Not good?"_

He kept on reading.

_Please, understand I did it all for our safety; __your_ _safety. I had to. Or else... Moriarty would've killed you all. Snipers, aimed right at you three. Ready to pull the trigger at any given moment. Actually, don't tell the others... Especially not Mycroft; Heaven knows he wouldn't let me live it down. But... I was mostly concerned about _you.

John started to cool off, sitting back down. He released his grip and smoothed the paper down a little. "Sherlock..." He said softly and sweetly to himself.

_I couldn't of delt with myself if I caused your death. I'd live every day with such high regret. A dead man walking, if you will… _

_...Too soon? Sorry. Look, John, the point is... I'm sorry. I had my reasons. I had my doubts at first, but it was what I had to do. There was no other choice. Nothing. You couldn't know... It wouldn't of seemed real enough to call down the snipers. I really hope you understand. Oh, and John? One more thing._

Reading the last part of the letter, his heart began palpating rapidly, and he dropped the letter, which gracefully fell to the floor.

_I love you, John._

_See you soon,_

_-SH_

He did a double-take, and his vision blurred. He couldn't believe it. _Sherlock,_ actually showing _emotion_? Not to mention, this extreme of it? To _him_? Although, he was acting weird throughout the letter... 'Dearest John?' Caring about his safety so much? Hating himself if he let John die? John shook his head in disbelief. He left the letter on the floor. To anyone else, he was staring at the wall; to himself, a story of his thoughts poured out in front of his eyes. Emotions circled around his head so quickly, it made him dizzy: Confusion; Anger; Flattery; Unknowing what to do; a slight pang of doubt. What if Sherlock didn't write this letter? Could it of been Moriarty? No, it told in the papers he was dead. Suicide. But, perhaps, like Sherlock, it was all a faux? John put his head in his hands, wanting to give up. Wishing he never read the letter. Who knows how awkward it would be now? Does Sherlock expect him to feel the same way?

_Does _he feel the same way?

"John?" Mrs. Hudson opened the door with bags of groceries in her arms. "John, I've bought more tea! I also got a few things to make biscuits to go with it. Thought you'd like that." She raised her eyebrows as she viewed the man. John was up out of his chair, circling and pacing around like a crazy man. She threw her groceries on the table, and rushed near him. She put her hands on his shoulders in an attempt to stop him. "John, are you alright?" He, still dazed, blinked a few times to try and connect with reality once again. Sighing, he sat down.

"I'm fine." He looked up to her and shot a fake smile the best he could, but he wasn't fooling her.

"John, did you hear me? I've got tea and biscuits. Does that sound good?"

"Uh.. Uh yes, sure. Good." Mrs. Hudson sighed, and put on the kettle. She crossed over to him, sitting across from the anxious man.

"John, are you positive you're alright? You can tell me if-" John sharply sighed, annoyed.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine!" He half-yelled curtly, making the fragile woman jump. He sighed again, but this time more calm. "I'm positive. I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'm just..." He sighed, hoping she'd make her own cover-up for him, not having an explanation to his bizarre actions without explaining everything. He smiled again, this time a little brighter, and it seemed to work on the other end; A curve mirrored on the landlady's face. "Mrs. Hudson, some tea would be wonderful." He tried to stay even and calm, not giving away any nervousness. She hopped up and nodded, muttering words of concerned gabber to herself. He sighed a little breath of relief. Suddenly, his phone buzzed again. Pulling it out of his pocket, he read the flashing screen.

_I trust you got my letter?_

_-SH_

__John must've squeaked out loud, because he heard Mrs. Hudson's tin clatter to the floor. The poor man shot up to his feet, everything shocking him at once.

"I'm alright." He yelled to the kitchen, while reading the new message blinking on his phone.

_I'd like to see you. _

_-SH_

Mrs. Hudson stood, catching her fragile breath. John rushed to the door, taking his jacket and uttering a quick 'goodbye' to the puzzled landlady. He typed a reply as quickly as he could.

_Where? JW_

The reply was almost immediate.

_Same as our goodbye._

_-SH_

He sighed to himself. _That's Sherlock, _He thought, _Always speaking in clues and riddles. _He tried to make himself laugh to cover the choke of sadness. Sighing, he called a taxi. When one finally pulled to a stop in front of him, he jumped in anxiety.

"St. Bart's hospital, please."

"Sherlock?" John now wandered the lonely rooftop of St. Bart's hospital, each step piercing his side from memories much too fresh to be dealt with. Even after three whole years. He dreaded this. He doubted this. He questioned whether or not Sherlock was actually behind this. Was it Moriarty? Or maybe the elder Holmes, playing a prank? _Pretty harsh prank. _John couldn't believe himself for actually doing this. He supposed the thought of seeing and talking to Sherlock was too great an offer to pass.

"...John?" That voice entered his head with both great pain and great relief. It was so far away in his mind, it almost seemed imaginary. He thought it was his own mind, playing tricks on him. John was far too scared to turn around. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't choke a single word. "John, it's me. Honestly, I know you haven't forgotten me in the mere three yea-"

"_Mere?!_" John found his words, back still facing away from the other man. "You honestly think three years is a _small _amount of time?! Sherlock, seriously. I would have thought that you'd have grown not to be as big of a-" He sighed, and turned around. "Sh-" He choked on his own breath. He couldn't _fathom _the figure in front of him. He was numb with shock; with sadness; with fury; with annoyance; with joy; with love- wait… Love? Did he honestly love him back? John shook his head. He didn't feel like thinking. Then, at that moment, he realized what a mess he was. _Sherlock did this to me, _was his logic. Filled with such rage, he ran towards the dark figure and threw a wicked punch. It knocked both of them back quite a bit. Sherlock stumbled, keeping his balance, expecting this entirely.

"John, while I deserved and expected that, I-" Sherlock was interrupted by sudden arms gripping him tightly around the waist. John wasn't letting go anytime soon. Sherlock hugged the blonde back just as tightly, ignoring the searing pain of his nose, happy to be reunited. He hugged as tight as he could, as did John. Neither said a word; neither Brit needed to. Sherlock's dirty shirt became damp with tears. They stood there silently for a long time. Both were equally willing, both were grateful. It was nice; but they both knew what needed to come next. They needed to talk.

Sherlock was the first to let go. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he spoke up.

"Uh… John? I'd like to uh.. apologize, actually." John let go and looked up at him.

"That's a first." John muttered. He couldn't tell if John was joking, or being serious. It didn't matter.

"Well.. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. At all. And.. well.. you know. I wrote it all down in that letter. I trust you've read it?" John nodded. "..._All_ of it?" John nodded again, looking down awkwardly. Sherlock sighed cautiously. "I assume we can continue business as usual, though.. As partners." He winced at his own voice. "No no, not.. not _partners, _I meant.. I mean-" Sherlock's frantic trail of words was interrupted abruptly as John smashed his lips to the brunette's. Sherlocked kissed back gratefully, but also utterly shocked. He pulled away to view the broken man in front of him. He must've gave a questioning enough look, because John smiled a little and grumbled.

"There's room to be furious at you later, you bloody jerk. Right now…" An unsure smile appeared on his face. "I love you too, Sherlock."

_Story end. _


End file.
